


Houseplants and Misunderstandings

by TreasureHunter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is suspicious, Crowley Loves his Houseplants (Good Omens), Crowley puts the fear of Crowley into his plants, Misunderstandings, Post-Armageddincident, houseplants, sappy thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreasureHunter/pseuds/TreasureHunter
Summary: In which Crowley yells at his plants, Aziraphale yells at Crowley and everything is just one big misunderstanding.





	Houseplants and Misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an actual Idea, but then turned into this. Apologies for any OOC-ness; I found these two ridiculously hard to write.
> 
> Can be read as pre-relationship, relationship, or as friendship. It's just Crowley and Aziraphale together after the Armageddincident.

Aziraphale has only been once in Crowley’s flat, on the night after the world didn’t end and his bookshop had still been burnt down. At the time he’d been rather preoccupied, what with the whole business in Tadfield. He and Crowley had talked in the kitchen (in desperate need of restocking, in Aziraphale’s frank opinion) for the whole night, fretting over a prophecy that might or might not be meant for them and eventually coming up with a plan that would hopefully get Hell and Heaven off their respective backs. This time, though, he takes his time to look around.

The decor is stark and stylish, simultaneously very much like and unlike Crowley himself. The demon is much more expressive, and dare he think it, exuberant than this hypermodern place seems to suggest. On the other hand, Aziraphale reminds himself, Crowley did always have a peculiar quirk regarding everything’s proper place.

“Oh, no no no. I warned you all before. I told you not to do this. But you didn’t listen. You thought you could hide from me. And look where it got you!”

Crowley’s voice, Aziraphale immediately notes, comes from down the hallway. The words take a bit longer to process. When they do, though, Aziraphale is horrified. He has never heard Crowley talk like this. Certainly, he knows that Crowley is a demon and he knows, theoretically, what Crowley gets up to when they aren’t together, especially in the beginning of Time, but apart from causing minor inconveniences, Aziraphale had never thought Crowley capable of anything so cruel, so menacing. So demonic.

Aziraphale has been to Hell once, and discovered that all Crowley’s stories were greatly downplayed. What the demon described as ‘merely unpleasant’, Aziraphale would call ‘downright torture’. Still, that had always been other demons; never had Crowley himself partaken in such practices. Until now.

“Another one? Now you’ve really done it. Are you happy now? You knew the consequences. Now you’ll have to face them. Say goodbye to the rest.”

Aziraphale has heard enough. He knows this is Crowley’s flat and that he’s a guest here, and just wandering through another person’s home is rude. He knows Crowley is a demon and he knows what his job entails. And yet… Yet Aziraphale is an angel and he cannot abide wanton cruelty.

Aziraphale marches through the flat, following the threats uttered in Crowley’s voice. Crowley’s flat is large, but other than the slight tingle that notifies Aziraphale that the space the rooms occupy do technically not fit into this reality, he doesn’t notice the priceless art adorning the continuing grey-and-black styled wall at all. A low, growling sound of a machine coming to life echoes down the rest of the hallway and Aziraphale quickens his steps. He passes through what might be an office or a throne room, depending on the occupant’s intention, and Aziraphale spares them a short glance and despite the situation, he smiles at the fond feeling in his chest. Then he stands before a set of double doors; he can see Crowley’s silhouette through the semi-transparent glass. Crowley is holding something, showing it around. Aziraphale can feel the terror leaking from the room, and it shakes him to his core. Let this be some misunderstanding, he begs silently. He cannot see Crowley’s victim, but that doesn’t stop Aziraphale from barging in.

“Crowley! Stand back! And put that down at once!”

Crowley looks up, sunglasses for a change perched on his hair instead of on his nose, and clad for once simply in black jeans and a black shirt, sleeves halfway rolled up. He holds an empty plant pot up in the air, and a plant mister in the other hand. He eyes Aziraphale as if he is not quite sure what the angel could possibly be yelling about.

"Angel?” Crowley asks, stunned, as if he’s not quite sure what Aziraphale is doing here or where he came from.

“Let them go, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice comes out cold in a way that he’s never used to Crowley before. He’s slightly shocked himself, but carries on as if this is normal. Just an angel scolding a demon. “Let them go,” he repeats. “I am disappointed in you, Crowley. I truly thought you were above such vile behaviour.”

“What _are_ you talking about?” Crowley’s slitted pupils have narrowed even further and his eyebrow is raised. The confusion is slowly making place for irritation and the thought comes to Aziraphale that maybe, perhaps, storming in here was not the cleverest way to handle the situation. But he can still feel the terror emanating from the room, and he had heard Crowley utter a series of horrid threats.

“You were threatening someone. I heard you threatening someone!”

“Angel, I-”

“No Crowley, I don’t want excuses. I want you to release whoever you’re holding captive, right now.”

Crowley then does something Aziraphale has not expected: he laughs. Now, Aziraphale knows Crowley quite well, with an acquaintanceship going back over six thousand years, and he knows that Crowley does not laugh often, or without cause. Despite that, though, Aziraphale knows every little variation of Crowley’s expression, even behind the dark glasses he’s worn for over two thousand years. So right now, Aziraphale is shocked to see Crowley’s laugh is not merely a sarcastic grin, or even a small chuckle, but full-on, genuine laughter. First Crowley throws his head back, then he doubles over smoother than human anatomy should allow.

Involuntarily Aziraphale takes a small step forward, arms already outstretched to steady the demon. Crowley vaguely waves him away with the plant mister, still unable to bring out a word.  
Rather put out, Aziraphale crosses his arms to wait it out. He can see no other person in the little greenhouse, miraculously enjoying a full sun despite the fact it had been raining when Aziraphale arrived and the rather unfortunate location far away from any window.

It takes Crowley a full three minutes to calm down; the sight of Aziraphale sets him off again a few times. When he’s able to speak again, Crowley gestures back to his office doubling as throne room and Aziraphale obediently takes a few steps back, quickly followed by Crowley who closes the double doors to the greenhouse meticulously. It does make Aziraphale suspicious, but he has decided to give Crowley the benefit of the doubt. Even if he can still feel the fear emanating from the other room.

Crowley puts the plant mister and empty plant pot on the table and takes place on his throne in a way that is entirely too Crowley-like: one leg slings over the armrest, the other rests on the table, while his arms are crossed against the headrest. Aziraphale remains standing due to an unfortunate lack of other seats. Crowley shifts a bit to get comfortable, twisting his body in impossible angles while doing so.

“Aziraphale - angel - you misunderstood completely. I don’t do captives. You know that.” Crowley’s voice turns serious at the last words. That was true; Aziraphale had gotten many metaphorical headaches from Crowley’s particular brand of temptation - asking uncomfortable, needling questions almost always involving the demonic little words _what if_ until the victim decided to find out the answer. Crowley was always very particular about free will and curiosity.

“Then whose fear did I sense?”

Crowley’s eyes do a thing that only Crowley’s eyes are capable of doing and that conveyed a general sense of _this is actually quite embarrassing but secretly I’m very proud of my wickedness_. Crowley’s eyes did a similar thing when he’d told Aziraphale about the time he convinced the hotshots in Hollywood reality TV was the future.

Crowley looks away and murmurs something that Aziraphale doesn’t quite catch, but when he gives the demon a look he’s perfected over the centuries, the other caves and repeats himself. “The plants’.”

“The plants’?” Aziraphale repeats, just to make sure he’s heard it right. When Crowley nods, Aziraphale turns his attention back to the room they’ve just vacated. Though the doors are now closed, if Aziraphale concentrates he can sense remarkably sentient lifeforms behind them. No sign of any other living things, though; not that Aziraphale really distrusted Crowley. He may be a demon, but Aziraphale has long ago learned that Crowley loves to defy expectations.

“My dear, what in Heaven’s name are you doing to those poor things? What have they ever done to you?” Crowley opens his mouth wide and Aziraphale recognises the signs of a long and confusing outburst before Crowley utters even a single word. Aziraphale nevertheless listens carefully to the explanation that follows like clockwork; he notes Crowley’s defensiveness and infers the underlying appreciation Crowley has for what is truly the most prospering indoor orangery Aziraphale has ever seen.

“… and therefore they need discipline,” Crowley concludes, waving his hand to indicate the empty plant pot.

“That sounds awfully dedicated, my dear. One could even suggest you care deeply about those leaves and flowers.” Aziraphale carefully keeps a neutral face, biting the inside of his cheek to prevent the smile from forming. Crowley will not take kindly to any insinuations that he has a heart, even though he so obviously does. Throughout their long acquaintance Aziraphale has found many of his beliefs systematically disproven by the demon currently wailing about his houseplants’ lack of obedience; in return, he has been methodically warming Crowley to the concept of kindness. Despite the latter’s fervid, vehement, and vocal complaints and protests, Aziraphale knows it is working.

Theoretically, everything is dead set against their friendship and before the Armageddincident Aziraphale had believed those voices that told him the Arrangement was a fluke and that what he and Crowley shared was fake and impossible to last. But we’ve shown them, Aziraphale thinks with equal amounts pride and obstinacy.

He looks up to find Crowley staring at him, sunglasses once more planted firmly before his eyes. His face is unreadable when he says, “What are you thinking about, angel?”

Aziraphale fidgets for a moment, not sure if he wants to deal with Crowley’s attitude regarding such sappy thoughts right now. “Just us,” he says, and beams. And apparently that was the right thing to do, because Crowley’s face contorts into another expression only Crowley’s face is capable of making. It is s smile that is half fond amusement and half completely besotted. Aziraphale will never tell how utterly adorable it is.


End file.
